The Last Time Your Daddy Took off His Shirt in Public

When I was a kid I was obsessed with basketball. I would stay up till 12:30 or 1:00 most nights, watching the Western Conference game on TNT or ESPN. And then every summer morning, as soon as I woke up, I'd throw on some shorts, a Kobe Bryant jersey, and too many wrist bands, and go outside to ruin the leather cover of my regulation NBA basketball on liquid-hot pavement. I put 100 percent of my time and energy into this one great thing. Some people spend their whole lives searching for their calling, but I was lucky enough to find mine before I even finished middle school.

I was going to be a professional basketball player when I grew up.

Problem was, my dream was wholly dependent on the "growing up" part. I'm 29 years old now, and I haven't grown an inch since 6th grade. Not to mention I'm slow and I have asthma.

But despite my obvious physical deficits, I was so sure I'd accomplish my dream of playing pro ball that I would dedicate myself fully to one brand of athletic apparel, rehearsing for the day when I would sign my first endorsement deal. Nike swoosh on my shirt, shorts, socks, shoes, underwear, wristbands, etc. Then Kobe signed a deal with Adidas, and suddenly there were three stripes on everything I owned, including my deodorant and cologne. Somehow your grandmother would scrape together $160 to buy me magical spring-loaded iridescent carbon fiber shoes, so I could actually graze the rim with my fingertips--the proudest accomplishment of a 5' 6" white boy's life. I had everything I needed to start my basketball career. . . except a spot on the roster.

But by the end of my freshman year, I was ready to take my game to the next level. My high school was having spring tryouts for the varsity basketball team, and I was making plans to break ankles and dunk on mofos. For months I'd been wearing ankle weights and doing calf-raises while blasting R Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly." I knew that at my height and overall physical appearance, there was only one way to get the attention of the coaches--besides wheezing the loudest--and that was to sky over my competition.

The tryout started with about 5 minutes of ball-handling and passing drills, then a layup line, then free throws. After that, the coaches lined everyone up on one sideline, and told us each to go to one half of the court or the other. I was psyched to finally play some 5 on 5, when I noticed something peculiar. All the players on the other side of the court were tall and muscular. All the players on my side of the court were short and soft. Then a curtain started to lower between the two halves. On that side, the varsity men's coaching staff watched over future NBA prospects. On this side, a P.E. teacher and an equipment manager pretended to pay attention to a bunch of future liberal arts majors. I could see a moment of recognition in all the other chubby kids' eyes. For us, the tryout was over before it began. 

. . . all but the humiliation.

As the curtain dropped, each of us were fully aware that we were eliminated based mostly on physical appearance. A couple layups and free throws are not a good enough sample size to determine basketball acumen and athletic potential. We looked unathletic, so we probably were. And now half of us losers were instructed to take off our shirts. It felt as if they were telling me, You're too fat to play basketball. Now get naked anyway. I played only 4 shameful, shirtless possessions. Didn't even take a shot.

That was the end of my basketball career, and the last time your daddy took off his shirt in public.

It's been 15 years. 15 years of fully-clothed beach trips and declined pool party invitations. 4 people have seen me shirtless in my adult life, and each of those people was either licensed to practice medicine, or they were sleeping in my bed.

This guy is my hero.

The basketball tryout humiliation story isn't the origin of my physical insecurity. I don't know what caused it, and I certainly can't remember far enough to say when it started. Truth is, I don't remember ever being comfortable with myself.

My struggle with negative body image has been the biggest and most persistent mental hurdle in my life. There have been times as an adult when I wanted to play basketball in a rec-league, but was too insecure to wear the uniform--a thin t-shirt that accentuates the moobs. Times when I wanted to audition to play guitar in a band, but was intimidated by the waif-like, heroine addict appearance of the other members. Then there was that time I spent nearly $2000 renting a beach house with a private pool just so your mother and I could swim together. There's no aspect of my life that hasn't been effected in some way by crippling physical insecurity.

But when you read this, I hope it comes as a surprise. I hope you have no idea that your father was ever so uncomfortable with taking off his shirt. Because regardless of what I look like, or how overwhelming the anxiety gets, I'll be taking you to the beach and to the pool, and teaching you to swim. And I'll be doing it shirtless, with as much confidence as I can fabricate. Because I can tell you that your body's perfectly beautiful and unique and nothing to be ashamed of, but you'll never believe me, if you see how ashamed I am of mine.

I'm going to overcome my struggle with negative body image. I don't know when, but soon. And when I do, it will be because you gave me the courage to do so.

The Time Your Daddy Accidentally Lost His Virginity

Adults often say that teenagers feel "invincible" or "immortal." But when I was a teenager, I felt just the opposite. I felt extra vincible, extra mortal. I was scared of everything. Maybe not everything, but certainly everything new. And as a teenager, the two newest things I had to be scared of were driving and sex. 

I was sure that if I ever drove over the speed limit, I'd find myself crawling, legless, away from the burning wreckage at the bottom of a ravine. I knew for certain that if I ever had sex, the condom would break, and I would impregnate the girl and contract AIDS. We would be teenage parents of AIDS babies, and both of our lives would be ruined.

These fears were not my fault. These fears were taught to my generation by adults who intentionally over-corrected, because they didn't expect us to take them seriously. Parents and teachers, ministers and coaches, they didn't think they could teach us the virtues of moderation and good judgement. They didn't think we would listen to that. They didn't think we would listen to anything. So instead, they continually beat us over the head with worst-case scenarios and flashed closeup photos of infected genitalia in PowerPoint presentations. They figured if the message was loud enough and disgusting enough, maybe they could scare at least one kid straight.

Your dad was that kid.

I obsessively obeyed every traffic law until I was 18, I never tasted alcohol until after I was 21, and I was a college dropout before I had my first proper sexual experience with a girl--a girl who just happened to be my best friend.

[Bonus Lesson: If you ever become really good friends with a girl, all your friends will warn you against doing anything sexual with her, because it will "ruin your friendship." This is bullshit. With all the amazing things humans are capable of, it's not inconceivable that two friends could touch genitals and continue being friends. If the friendship is based on some deeper connection, then sex is not going to ruin it. However! As I will demonstrate in a moment, a strangely abrupt, shame-inducing rejection of sex may seriously wound it.]

One night, in my bedroom at my parents house, my friend and I were kissing and doing hand-stuff to each other. I was mostly okay with this. I was a little worried about kissing and the transmission of herpes, but I was pretty sure masturbation didn't make AIDS babies, so I was as comfortable as I could be, given the lingering horror of my public school sex education. The discomfort began when my best friend slid her pants off, straddled me, and proceeded to have sex on me.

We hadn't talked about it before hand. We'd never really discussed it, at least not with words. Up to this point, everything was feeling, no talking. But the instant I felt her, the fear swirled to the front of my mind. Pictures of disease and car crashes, and teenage pregnancy statistics flashed overhead. Just seconds into my first time, I grabbed my beautiful, loyal, perfect friend by her hips, and threw her the fuck off of me.

Ashamed of how physical and unloving my response was, I immediately started fabricating excuses. I did everything but tell her I just wasn't ready. I blamed it on my parents being home. Said I was afraid they'd come in without knocking--a fear I'd made no mention of during our foreplay. She saw through that excuse immediately, so I constructed a new narrative; one where we could never be more than friends; one where I just didn't find her attractive. I fabricated an emotional rejection to go with the physical rejection. And that's the excuse that stuck.

When you have sex for the first time, I hope it's deliberate. I hope you mean for it to happen. But if you don't, if it starts too soon or moves too fast for you, I want you to know it's okay to stop. You can't help how you react in the moment, and you have every right to be as abrupt and awkward as you need to be. But you don't have to react as poorly as I did. Rather than physically remove her from myself, I could've simply told her I wasn't ready. I could have spoken to her. She would have listened. Some people won't listen, but she would have. I knew that much about her. I could have told her that I did want to do it--because in retrospect, I think I actually did--but I was freaking out because we weren't using a condom. Whatever my initial reaction, if I'd been more open and honest with her afterwards, maybe my first time wouldn't make for such a disappointing memory.

Ask (someone who has) a Vagina -- Madeline

In starting a blog loosely based on parenting, it occurred to me that I only get to experience maybe 50 percent of what it means to be a parent. I'll never know the sweet parasite / host relationship that is pregnancy. No part of my body makes food (thank god). And there's no such thing as "paternity leave." At least not where I work. A mother sustains a baby, both physically and emotionally, in ways that will always be mysterious and amazing, if not pants-shittingly terrifying to me. This is not to discount all the great dads in the world, it's only to say that the experience of carrying, birthing, and nursing a baby--all the things that sustain a brand new human--is and will always be completely foreign to those of us who lack the necessary equipment.

Thus, I present a new interview series: Ask a Vagina!

Or more accurately, Ask Someone Who Has a Vagina!, as we will be interviewing the owner and operator of the vagina, not the organ itself.

In this first installment, I'm going to be interviewing a friend and fellow new parent named Madeline. She beat your mother and I into the pregnancy game by 5 or 6 months. Since then, her facebook posts have read like an instruction manual written by Stephen King--always informative, usually entertaining, and sometimes nightmare-inducing.

APC: Hey, Madeline, thank you for doing this with me. As I'm writing this, you are EXTREMELY pregnant. When is/was your original due date, and have you passed it yet?

Hey!! Thanks so much for including me in this cool thing you're doing! Yes, EXTREMELY is the appropriate term here. I'm currently 38 weeks and 4 days along, which translates to just over 8 1/2 months for people who don't know the pregnancy week thing. I'm due April 6th, but was also told April 13th, then told it was April 6th again, but I'm wanting to stick with the whole April 6th deal. Since I'm seeing a group of midwives and not an OB/GYN, I don't have the option of being induced and they'll actually let me go until I'm 9 1/2 months before they intervene. I'm praying to everything/everyone that will listen that that doesn't happen!

You're seeing a group of midwives--this is where I'll prove my ignorance on all matters prenatal--I had no idea that was an option. How does the care differ from that of an OB/GYN? How does it compare financially? Does insurance cover it?

The best way I've heard it described is that OBs are trained to "do" and midwives are trained to "wait". Midwives are trained in birthing and have a special set of education that is different from MDs and labor and delivery nurses. A doctor knows how to perform surgery and medically intervene if the need arises and a midwife works with a doctor but knows how to let labor progress as naturally as possible. Just because you see a midwife doesn't mean you have to do everything all-natural. You can have an epidural and possibly a scheduled c-section with a midwife. The type of care differs in the way you go about it. Like I said before, they won't talk about inducing me until I'm at 42 weeks, where a doctor might want to induce me anywhere from two weeks before to a week after my due date. Midwives tend to be more open to holistic treatment, such as essential oils instead of medicine, or hands-off methods like a no-ultrasound pregnancy. My midwives work alongside a major hospital and have a good relationship with the doctors on staff who will only be utilized if there is a real need. There are other midwives who deliver babies at home or in Birthing Centers, but I will deliver in a hospital. All the services are covered by my insurance, but for some of the home birth midwives, sometimes they charge less to go without insurance. A good movie to watch is The Business of Being Born on Netflix.

Which was harder for you, the nausea and hormonal psychosis of early pregnancy? or the rotundity of late pregnancy?

To be honest, I've had a really easy pregnancy with not many changes to speak of until recently. I have actually gotten confused looks when I say things like that because I think a lot of people expect that adapting to pregnancy is hard. Women hear horror stories their whole lives of how terrible pregnancy is and it kind of sticks with you. I once had a boyfriend whose sister seemed to have these amazing pregnancies--swimming MILES a day in her third trimester, glowing skin, a real at-ease way about her. I would tell people about how her pregnancies went and they always scoffed and said something along the lines of "Ugh, she's one of those..." I'm sad to say I've gotten a few of those responses too. I never got sick and any brief nausea I had was tamed by eating. I've barely gained weight anywhere but my boobs and belly. I had crying fits in the beginning but was also aware enough of what was happening that I always apologized to Todd for any weird outbursts before it could turn into a thing. My appetite is, however, pretty annoying considering I have a job and can't exactly go eat every couple hours even though I'm starving. Something I've noticed recently is this absolute hatred for communicating with other people. I'm fine with Todd and my midwives and casual acquaintances at work, but when you're this close to having your first baby (and the first grandchild/nephew/cousin/friend's baby to other people) the calls never end. I'm positive if people didn't check in I'd be really lonely and furious, but sometimes I just do not feel like telling people "I'm fine" and "no changes yet!". Sometimes I just want to call everyone when he comes out and be done with it!

I've had a pretty easy pregnancy, myself, but no one ever asks. Jaime's not been so lucky, however. I'm sure you get tired of hearing it, but having witnessed all the nausea and general crud of her first trimester, I can see why people hate you. You're like a genetic marvel. Serious question: Since all the weight's gone to your boobs and belly, how do you keep from falling over?

Ha!! Very carefully. I open doors on myself and other people run into me all the time!

I saw that you're having a boy. From my experience with Jaime, as soon as you tell someone you're pregnant, they claim to be clairvoyant and start trying to guess the baby's gender based on the orbit of the moon and the color of the mother's aura. How stupid and annoying are those people?

Todd and I tried to keep the sex of the baby a secret the entire pregnancy, but loose lips sunk our ship and we ended up finding out when I was just over 5 months along from a family friend. Even before that, when seemingly NO ONE knew, I had people guessing constantly. In line at the grocery store, close friends, EVERYONE. As soon as someone would ask what we were hoping it was (a girl), they'd start in on how we'd get the opposite (we did). That was frustrating. My belly shape changed a trillion times over the course of my pregnancy, yet everyone "knew" it was a boy or a girl based on the shape. All of that is an old wives' tale, but try telling people that. They look at you, horrified that you would call into question their expertise (they have none).

How hard has it been to prepare your home for the new baby? I've got a recording studio worth of music equipment to move out of the baby's room between now and August. Even our spare bathtub is full of drum hardware.

We actually moved into a new apartment when I was about 5 months, so we were able to kind of start from the ground up. I tried to make sure we were getting rid of anything we didn't need in the moving process so we could make room for all the crap that comes along with having a baby. We went about setting up the nursery pretty slowly, which we ended up loving because I couldn't imagine staring at an empty crib for months and months. Almost everything we have we got second hand from yard sales or family members. Spray paint is your friend!!

You've commented before on the ridiculous phenomenon that is "mom-shaming". Would you care to expound on that for my readers?

This is a crazy thing that absolutely should not exist, yet is everywhere. I think a lot of people have good intentions when they start to pry into your personal life and your pregnancy, but there are a select few that I think are really trying to be huge dicks. It starts the moment you announce your pregnancy. I think you even got to see it first hand the day you guys announced!

We did! And you were the first person to come to our defense. I can't thank you enough for that.

Oh you're welcome! I get a little defensive when I see it happening because it is such an annoyance to me. Every mom thinks they know everything about pregnancy, birthing, parenting, modern medicine... the list goes on. People will ask you very personal questions just so they can tell you you're wrong. There is no subject matter that is safe. Like I said, I see a group of midwives who do things differently than an OB/GYN. I've been told the care I'm getting is the equivalent to seeing a witch doctor. We originally wanted a home birth but couldn't because everyone in our area was booked. We were disappointed. A lot of people around us expressed how happy they were we weren't going that route because they would feel more comfortable. THEY would. I've had women tell me caffeine is bad for my baby with total shock and awe all over their faces, though I'd been told by medical professionals that one cup of coffee a day was ok. Other women really feel this sense of authority when it comes to pregnancy just because they've done it before. It can lead to a lot of stress from feeling like you just can't live up to other peoples' expectations unless you decide VERY early on who you will take advice from and only take it from those people. Then you can smile and cuss in your head at the people who don't matter.

I know that you and Todd were engaged at one point, but haven't married. Living here in the theocracy that is the south, have any friends or family thrown the bible at you since you became pregnant? Do you now, or did you ever, feel external pressure to get married?

We definitely felt pressure to apologize a lot when we decided to call off the wedding. We only had three weeks until our wedding day and lost a lot of money in the process, but the timing just wasn't right. A lot of our friends and family really felt that we'd let them down and it frustrated us because we felt as if other people weren't seeing the big picture that we weren't happy and this was for the best. They were also confused as to how we could stay together but call off a wedding. It all seemed pretty normal to Todd and me, and in the midst of all the conflict, we ended up getting pregnant. When we announced it to our friends and family, we again weren't met with the greatest reactions. My mom left us in a restaurant, Todd's mom left us in another county, my sister was very worried that we wouldn't understand we didn't have to stay together in order to be good parents, and my father and grandmother both thought we needed to run to the courthouse so the baby could have a last name. It was like we were having to defend everything we knew to be ok all over again. We decided very early on that we were not going to look at the pregnancy as anything other than positive because in that situation, it's very easy to get sucked into the negativity. I think this also irritated some people and made them think we weren't thinking clearly. It only took a few weeks, but our entire family really came around and got super excited to be getting (on one side) their first grandchild and the first baby in a long time.

As far as any pressure now, I think I'm very much open to waiting to get married but for Todd it's been difficult. He's never pictured himself as someone who would have a baby before he was married, while I'm the exact opposite. Since I was little I always had a suspicion that I would get married after my younger sister and have a baby before I was married, yet still an adult. I never pictured being a teen mom, but I knew I wouldn't be married. Todd asks me to marry him every day. I'm holding out because I wanna wear that dress and have the wedding we'd planned a year ago. I still wear my ring and Todd wears a wedding band. We know what our relationship is and we're grateful and happy. We wouldn't change calling off the wedding in a million years. I think breaking it off actually kept us together and the pregnancy made us see the bigger picture of the important things we want in our lives together.

That's beautiful, Maddy. It's inspiring to see you and Todd be true to yourselves, and do what's best for you, regardless of expectations. Thanks again for doing this. It's been fun!

[You can check out Madelin's personal blog HERE]

Why You'll (Probably) Never Ride the Bus to School

Your grandparents never sat me down for "the talk" when I was a kid. Which is fine with me. If I had questions, I would've been too embarrassed to ask, and if they had answers, I would've been too embarrassed to listen. The truth is, I never needed to have "the talk." 'Cause I rode the bus to school. I had all sorts of talks with the older siblings of my classmates.

My sex education at home was, "Whatever you do, be careful." At school it was "Whatever you do, you'll get AIDS." But school bus sex ed sounds more like, "You guys ever heard of a rusty trombone?"

Public school transportation is the original Urban Dictionary. Every useful thing I ever learned about sex, all my terminology and strategy, I learned on the bus. But sex is only the tip of the iceberg. I learned countless life lessons on my daily bus rides, including but not limited to:

How to make a cigarette lighter explode.

How much pressure it takes to choke someone out with a backpack strap.

How to use crosshatching to shade dick veins with a mechanical pencil.

How to conduct oneself in a freestyle rap battle.

These lessons have been invaluable to me as an adult, and are the reason I think you should also ride the bus.

But your mother disagrees.

And that's why you'll probably never ride the bus to school.

What I Learned from the Teen Chick Lit Craze

Almost ten years before you were born, the first of a series of wildly successful novels about sparkly teenage vampires was published. The Twilight series might be a bad place for me to start this conversation, because I never read any of the books or watched any of the movies. But there was a time, when the rest of the world was going crazy over it, that I thought Twilight might actually be worth checking out. What stopped me from buying and reading the series wasn't self-respect or stubborn-held personal beliefs about masculinity and adulthood, rather, it was the reviews I read online. Almost every review I read, positive or negative, lamented the irrelevance of Bella, the supposed central figure in the series. These were books written for teenage girls about a teenage girl who really didn't matter much.

Everybody was "team Jake", or "team Ed." Nobody was team Bella. Even the actress who played her in the movies seemed bored with the character.

Bella seemed to be just another addition to the long list of helpless prop princess characters; characters whose only influence on the narrative is to fall into trouble or pick a suitor; character's who begin miserable and end happily ever after, due almost entirely to the efforts of some male character. If these reviews were at all accurate, not only did I not want to read the books myself, but I worried about a generation of young girls obsessed with the series.

A month after the final installment of Twilight was published, people of all ages scrambled for the next young-adult fiction craze: The Hunger Games. I haven't read this one either, but I have seen the first movie. Here's my attention deficit synopsis:

First Act: This girl named Katniss basically martyrs herself to save her sister from competing in the post-apocalyptic murder olympics.

Second Act: Katniss meets Lenny Kravitz and gets set on fire, 'cause fashion. . .

Third Act: Katniss dominates the murder oplympics with superhuman instinct and physical ability, while showing compassion for this guy she knows--who, come to think of it, is kind of like the "Bella" of The Hunger Games--and then figures out a way to save both of their lives.

From my limited experience with Twilight and The Hunger Games, it's obvious that Katniss is superior to Bella in every way. Bella is an ancillary character. Katniss is a hero. Bella is a sadpants. Katniss is a badass. Bella hangs out on the sideline while the male characters compete for her affection. Katniss saves lives and climbs trees and kills her own dinner.

As I write this, your mother and I are still 4 weeks away from knowing whether you're a girl or a boy. But it doesn't matter. Regardless of your gender, be a Katniss, not a Bella. Be the hero in your narrative, not just the love interest in someone else's. Too many people spend their first 20 or 30 years, or even their whole lives seeing themselves as a secondary character in someone else's story. If you make yourself ancillary, when the hero leaves--as will happen at some point in your life--they take the story with them. Then you end up lost for weeks, months, years, struggling to construct a new narrative around a character you barely know--yourself.

I'm not asking you to be selfish or narcissistic. I'm only asking you to never forget your true value. There will be times when your role changes. There will be times when you lift up and propel other people towards their goals, instead of focusing on your own. When the time comes, be brave and selfless. But never forget that however you may impact someone else's story, you are the central character of your story.

What to Do When You Realize All Your Friends Are Assholes

When your daddy was in 8th grade, he went to something called a "Valentine's Dance." This is where the popular kids went to rub themselves on other popular kids, to the rhythm of the edited version of Montell Jordan's "Let's Ride." Meanwhile, the unpopular kids danced at arm's length from one another, and made frequent trips out to the hall to trade Pokemon cards, or whatever they were doing out there. Truth is, your daddy didn't really fit in with either group.

I was stuck in social limbo. I was desperate to impress the popular kids, with whom I had very little in common, and desperate to differentiate myself from the unpopular kids. I quickly learned that the best way to achieve both goals was to bully the unpopular kids as loudly and obnoxiously as possible. Once I had demonstrated a talent for linguistic terrorism against the "nerds" of our 8th grade class, a group of slightly more popular kids adopted me as a sort of insult attack dog. When the popular kids needed to effectively insult a person of higher intellect (I use the term loosely, as all 13 year-olds are blithering idiots), I was the guy they turned to. It was kind of like doing their homework for them, only exponentially more deplorable.

So at this Valentine's Dance, I was unconcerned with finding another kid with whom to rub bodies, while trying not to mess up the choreography of Freak Nasty's "Da' Dip." Rather than have a good time myself, my task was to make sure the unpopular kids felt shame for the good time they were having. 

One of these unpopular kids was a 6' 2", 350 pound monster of a man-child. This kid could have stomped us all to little grease spots if he wanted to. Fortunately for us, he either lacked the confidence for grease spot-stomping, or he had superhuman restraint. 'Cause if he ever got mad, none of us would have ever made it to 9th grade.

When I say that this kid was an easy target, you may think, Oh, of course. Because he was big and overweight. But you'd think wrong. He was huge. That's not an insult, that's just reality. But if he were huge and obsessed with football, and rap music, and titties, he probably would have been in with the popular kids. This guy was an easy target because he was huge and obsessed with Dragon Ball Z and Magic the Gathering, and had a 4.0 grade point average. Anime, role-playing, and scholastic achievement were not considered cool when your daddy was in 8th grade. This is one unfortunate lesson of being a teenager: The criteria for being popular or unpopular, admired or tortured; the attributes and qualifications that separate a bully from a victim are completely ARBITRARY. Who cares if you play sports or watch anime?! Teenagers do. And they are ruthless about it. There is no universe where I--all 5'6" of me--should be able to make someone a foot taller, and more than twice my size leave a middle school cafeteria in tears. But at the 8th grade Valentine's Dance, that's exactly what happened.

I don't remember what I said. And if I did remember, I wouldn't tell you. I'm not proud of ruining that boy's night, and I don't want you to have that kind of artillery in your vocabulary when you're 13 years old. I hope to hell that viciousness isn't hereditary.

Whatever I said to him that night, I didn't realize the extent of the damage I'd caused. I ran back--tail wagging behind me--to seek the approval of the popular kids. Several songs played before I even noticed the big kid was no longer there, towering over students and faculty alike. I asked someone where he went. They said they didn't know, but that they saw him run out of the cafeteria crying.

I realized in that moment, that all of my friends were assholes. And I was worse than any of them, 'cause I didn't even share in the popularity we were cultivating with our cruelty. I had become some kind of asshole court jester.

If you ever find in 8th grade that all of your friends are assholes, and that you're just as bad, or maybe worse than they are, stop. 

Just stop.

You may find, as I did, that most of your friends will also stop being assholes. It's like a law of nature, that when one asshole stops playing along, it's less fun for the remaining assholes. And if your friends don't stop being assholes, don't worry about it. In less than a year they'll find themselves on the bottom rung of an even more rigid and brutal caste system, called high school.

Dear Baby,

This blog is a time capsule for us to open when you're much older.  It is a proactive response to the myth that people become more conservative as they get older. If I'm destined to be crotchety and paranoid by the time you reach puberty, then I want to preserve some evidence of the open minded person I was before you were born. The essays contained herein are an attempt to broach the more awkward lessons of youth, while I'm still young enough to remember them. Take sex, for instance. I'm almost 30 now, and for nearly two decades sex has been maybe the most awesome, and important, and disappointing, and beautiful thing in my life. I mean, it made you! How amazing is that? But ten or twelve years from now, when it starts being important to you, sex will no doubt become the scariest thing in my life. I don't think I can avoid that fear. But if I write about it now, at a time when I'm almost 30 years old and less scared than I have ever been or will ever be, then maybe I can avoid transmitting that fear to you.

Other topics I hope to cover:

High School.

Body image.

Falling asleep during the ACTs.

The time dad dropped out of college.

Porn (and other uses for the internet).

The time dad accidentally lost his virginity.

The time it was okay for dad to punch someone in the face.

The time(s) it was not okay for dad to punch someone in the face.

What to do when you realize all you friends are assholes.

What to do when you realize all you friends are gone.

How dad got that scar on (insert body part).

How to be the central character in your narrative, not just a love interest in someone else's narrative.

How to (never really) know when you've found the one.

I will do my best to cover as many of these topics as possible in the seven months leading to your birth. From what I've read on the internet, once you're born, all of my entries will focus on the color and consistency of your poo. To help me think of less disgusting topics during that time, I've enlisted a staff of awkward authors. These open-minded and generally awesome people will contribute their awkward parenting thoughts from time to time. Consider these people your godparents. Or aunts and uncles. They are the closest thing you'll ever have to either, as your mother and I are nonreligious only-children.

Someday, when you're old enough to understand the themes presented in this blog, I'll email you a link--if people still email 30 years from now--and we'll have a good long laugh over the phone--if people still use phones 30 years from now. Until then, do what your mother tells you, try hard in school, eat your vegetables, and GO TO SLEEP.

Love,

Daddy

Editor in Chief, The Awkward Parent Collective